


To the Other Shore

by mischianza



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ancient Roman Ideas of Sexuality, Assorted denizens of Utumno, Dubious Consent, Intoxication, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 11:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13457163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischianza/pseuds/mischianza
Summary: While learning elaborate sorcery from Melkor, Mairon suddenly needs to confront what the other Maiar call "love," whatever that may be. It is most definitely an insult to Reason, and, while occasionally convenient in his capacity as one of Melkor's servants, should ultimately be avoided at all costs. If only it were that easy.





	To the Other Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Some things that should be addressed:
> 
> 1) One instance of consent in this is definitely dubious by our 21st century standards (considering one party is most definitely intoxicated), and while it isn't treated as such by the other characters, this is an important thing to be aware of. 
> 
> 2) Without spoiling anything, I would like to say that there is affection of some kind between them; their relationship is just very hierarchical because that is the most canonical way I could think of to write it. Mairon does not believe in relationships that don't have "purpose," and this only does because he serves Melkor. However he also considers affection to be weakness. (I felt that could use clarification, as this world tends to operate with different ideas than ours.)
> 
> 3) The chronology of this is undoubtedly messed up and I doubt that the situation at the end would ever have happened in canon but I don't think that warrants a "canon divergence" tag because the divergence isn't that extreme.
> 
> 4) I've used some lines from the Lay of Leithian fairly significantly.
> 
> 5) The title is from the introduction to Dante's Inferno.

I have always desired order above all else. It is, perhaps, a “fatal flaw” in some fashion, as Curumo jokes when he feels the need to lean against my work table in a way that suggests friendliness. I ask him, in all his expertise related to flaws, to find some in the ring I am making. He cannot find any, as usual. Thus our conversation withers and dies, as they always do.  
“Are you coming to the festival tonight?” he asks in that overly eager tone, as though he is a particularly young hound of Oromë’s.  
“I shall have to check my schedule. I may have an appointment.”  
“You have so many appointments! I suppose that makes sense, as you’re the favorite.” He looks at me as though expecting me to deny it. Why should I? In any case, I do have an appointment, as it happens.

I have found, in my time on Arda, that all my peers do what they are told, or else wallow in their miserable existence—sitting under trees all day, or dancing. In the past thousand years, it is only Lord Melkor who has made anything at all. Naturally, when this occurred to me, I sought him out for guidance.

 

When I managed to find my way to the gate of Utumno through the endless ice (I am a being of Fire, and this was particularly painful), I was greeted by a large spirit looming over me. I raised an eyebrow. “I am here to see Lord Melkor, if you do not mind.”  
_“What is your business with him?”_ the spirit intoned, breathing down my neck.  
“I request an audience with him. I admire his skill in forming elements quickly, and effectively, and…” I suddenly realized that informing this absurd being of my reasoning was a complete and utter waste of my time. “I must be let inside.”  
_“Are you an emissary from the Valar?”_  
“No. I come of my own accord.”  
The spirit sighed, and stood aside. 

The fortress itself was almost entirely uninviting. However, as it appeared to be deserted, I sang a note to form a ball of fire, which I held in my hands as both a lantern and a means of keeping warm. There seemed to be Music amid all the stone, though I had never felt stone so strongly. It grew louder as I descended, until I reached a pair of ornate doors, quite clearly carved to be imposing. As I faced them, a note that was not my own caused the flame to disappear.  
**“Who are you?”** came a voice from behind the doors.  
“I am Mairon. I am here to learn from Lord Melkor”—  
**“I am he. What would you ask of him?”**  
“To educate me in the ways of Music, and to…open these doors.” I noted that the doors were opened very quickly. I was made to approach until he held out his hand, bidding me to stop.  
**“I will not teach you Creation Itself, Maia,”** he hissed with disdain. Since Lord Melkor was evidently too great to respond to a mere request, I entered the next phase of the plan (though I could not figure out what compelled me to do so, as I had never been compelled in such a way before…): I knelt on the floor, head bowed.  
“Lord Melkor, I greatly admire your skill in creating efficiently, far more than the other Valar, and I wish to be shown how to exact similar designs—though far lesser, as my own work could never be compared to yours—“  
It felt disgusting. **“It is not sorcery, Maia.”**  
“Yes, I know.”  
**“Then what will you offer?”**  
What a terrible question. And yet…what was offered to me in the forge? Nothing, it seemed. “My services. I am a smith—“  
**“I know, Mairon Aulendil. You are a favorite, so it would seem.”** I must admit I was very pleased to hear that stories of my skill had reached even the outer edges of the world. **“At this moment I do not require a smith. If you report to me the doings of the Valar and their servants, I will show you how to command great power.”**  
“Yes, Lord Melkor.” And thus, I gave half of my life to him.

 

Therefore, the appointment I have is with him. As always, after that first meeting, we do not meet in Utumno but rather on more common ground. I don a black cloak large enough to obscure my face and walk north, nearly encountering the ice. Lord Melkor, as it happens, cares not for disguises at all. Truthfully, I am not worried—between our first meeting and this one I have all but given up reverence for the Valar, if I ever possessed any, and Lord Melkor could easily defeat any one or a number of them, should it come to that. I do not believe Eru cares for the world any longer, or he would intervene when the Valar insist upon sitting on their mountains or in their fields, doing nothing. And if he truly hated my master—for that is who he is, let us be honest—he would have stopped him at the beginning.  
**“Mairon, I have something for you. A way to prove your loyalty. You have been so good thus far.”**  
“Thank you, my lord. What is it?”  
He holds out his hand, in which is a piece of parchment with a date and a time written in spiky scrawl. **“There is to be a gathering. I request your presence.”** Instead of waiting for me to take it, he takes my hand and places the parchment in it. How strange it is that I used to be so loathing of authority! Perhaps I had not found a figure who understood. 

The day comes, and I search endlessly for a suitable garment. Indeed, as may be expected, I have nothing remotely appropriate for such a gathering (yet I still have no concept of what it might be, though I hate to admit such a thing)…every piece of clothing I have made is in shades of green, or deep red, or, astonishingly, some type of off-white. The deep red would have to do, as I have no time to make something or even to dye it, unless by “dye” one meant “burn until whatever fragment remains appears like charcoal.” I would, ordinarily on an occasion such as this, wear the robe over a tunic, but those occasions were respectable parties hosted by the rulers of Valinor. By their standards, the event I am about to attend, whatever it may be, is anything but respectable, and therefore demands that I change my dress, and my behavior. There will be no tunic tonight.  
I approach the same spirit as before, guarding the gates of Utumno. I hold out my hand, letting the parchment speak for itself. _“Yes, you are the spy,”_ it drones, gazing intently at me—though not, as one would expect, at the gold and jewels I wear. Perhaps such material things do not tempt spirits such as itself. What a miserable existence. Beyond this, I am not especially flattered by the idea that it has not bothered to learn my name, and instead insists upon referring to me by my lesser occupation, one I intend to cast off as soon as possible. However, it knows enough to stand aside.  
**“Welcome, Mairon,”** Lord Melkor says when I enter the great hall.  
His retinue gazes at me as I bow very low, nearly reaching the floor. “Greetings, my lord.”  
**“Good. You are here. Now we may begin.”** Music appears from nowhere—it does not appear that he is the cause of it, yet it responds to his gestures—and the bodies in the room begin milling about. I suppose this is the beginning, and there is to be an event later. Nevertheless, I move toward the group.  
It must be said at this juncture that I loathe crowds. If it is possible to loathe them even more intensely than usual, it would be due to the fact that not only is this a crowd, it is a crowd that does not care in the least for my presence, except in the form of an occasional touch resulting from the almost ridiculous closeness. Several of these beings ask if I would like a drink, and I refuse. One very blatantly places its hand upon my chest, then glances at me, startled. I bare my teeth. At this, Lord Melkor laughs, a sound that shakes the room. He approaches me, holding something in a goblet. The crowd parts around us as he shoves it at me, insisting **“Drink this.”** And I will not refuse him, so I do. 

I understand their touches now, and they become more frequent, and I touch back. Lord Melkor is staring at me, and I gaze at him, glassy eyed. As he crosses the room, it occurs to me that perhaps his expression is one of anger, but the drink he gave me must be a potion to slow me down, as all I can do is stare and eventually begin to raise one hand. He catches it by the wrist and kisses my mouth insistently. Hands—his?—guide my eyes closed. I suppose this means I have been promoted. 

We run through the forest and at this point it is dreamlike—for I am warm although it must in actuality be icy, and I am there as they pull down trees and capture some of Yavanna’s creatures and after, as I stand on the dais before Lord Melkor’s throne, he places a knife in my hand and bids me throw it, and I do. Thus I have killed, and my lord bids me drink again, and I do. I think I descend, and I recall stepping into the crowd once more…

 

I am aware of the fact that I am laying on something quite soft before I open my eyes. I am also aware of the intense pain behind my eyelids, and in my arms, and my chest, and my… I am covered in furs, and the room is dark, and Lord Melkor gazes into a mirror, selecting an assortment of jewels from a collection in his hand—Lord Melkor. Why am I here?  
“Good, you are awake.” That voice…why is it familiar…  
“You—you—“ I cannot think of any curses. “That voice from the hall—it isn’t your voice!”  
Lord Melkor faces me, a smirk on his lips. “No, Mairon, it is not.” He studies me, placing a hand on my forehead when I close my eyes, evidently revealing some of my pain. “Rest assured, I did not use that voice last night, either.”  
“I was in the hall, my lord. You did.”  
“Not there, Mairon. Here.” Here? “I did not match you in words—no one could; you were quite eager, even in words.” Oh, no. Had I—with him? With any man? How is that possible, technically speaking?  
“I am not attracted to you.” Then, realizing the bluntness of this statement, I go on: “You are incomparable, my lord. But I—not physically, in any case…”  
Lord Melkor laughs. “Yes, Mairon, I know.” This is terrible. He pauses for a moment. “You danced as well. Do you recall?” No.  
“I must go.”  
He holds out yesterday’s clothes. “Here, dress.” 

In the corridor I encounter a woman I met the previous night—a vampire, though not unattractive, as far as those creatures are concerned. She smirks just as Lord Melkor had. “How was it?”  
“Does…is this common knowledge?”  
“Oh yes. You were gazing at him very obviously.” She says everything with such a profound degree of sarcasm that I cannot determine if this is a usual occurrence, or she is laughing at my circumstances, or some horrid combination of the two.  
“I am not attracted to him! Or his…anatomy, in any case.”  
“I know.”  
“He said that exact phrase.”  
She looks at me sadly, as though I am hopelessly stupid. “He’s our lord, and you had sex with him—“ I must be turning red, because she pauses, and looks even more amused. “What? Haven’t you—oh. You haven’t, have you?” I say nothing, which to her evidently says everything. “It means you’re the favorite, something you would know all about, wouldn’t you, Mairon _Aulendil_?” I move to get past her and she lets me walk unimpeded but not before she gets in one more comment: “Did you hear about the dancing?”  
“Yes,” I hiss and walk down the corridor as quickly as I can without appearing to be avoiding something. 

For once, I am grateful for the spirits that ignore me as they go about their business—whatever that may be. The vampire’s words suggested that what took place was merely a ritual of some sort…I suppose that makes a certain amount of sense. She seemed to imply that Lord Melkor honors his favorites in that fashion. I should be honored. There is no reason I should not be. Except…what is the point of any kind of physical act, if not for reproduction? Love, maybe, as all the Maiar of Valinor sigh about when they are not gazing at trees or clouds. I can tell that not every union formed in that fashion is purely reproductive, and therefore love, whatever it may be, is quite important. Yet I have never experienced it. So the question must be asked: what exactly is that emotion? And what can it inspire one to do?  
As I approach the great hall, it occurs to me that the question of “love” is not remotely the important one. No: more important—why is this suddenly affecting me? The entire idea of expressing such a thing is weak. Was this his plan all along, to get me soft and pliant until I would express such profound weakness, without even knowing it was inside of me all along? (How can I live with myself, knowing it was evidently inside of me all along?) I do not wish to be pliant. I am not attracted to him. How could I be? It is not as though we could produce children—the Valar do not, in any case. What an utterly useless emotion, whatever it is.  
**“Mairon.”** Lord Melkor’s voice comes from the dais, and I now realize I have been standing in the doorway, staring into the air.  
“Yes, my lord.”  
He settles in his throne, appraising me. **“I will not send you back to the land of my brother looking like this—“** he gestures at all of me, **“—so I suppose it is fitting for you to be given a room.”**  
I bow as low as has become my custom. “Thank you, my lord.” A room, alone—thank Eru. Or, I suppose, thank Melkor. Last night I wished to be promoted and as of now my only wish is to hide until my lapse in reason has been forgotten.  
He snaps his fingers and a spirit almost exactly akin to the one guarding the gate appears out of the shadows. **“Show Mairon to his room.”**

I follow it as it walks—glides?—down the cold, winding halls. We appear to be rather close to Lord Melkor’s quarters, although as I recall from this morning’s shock, his are located comfortably near the heart of the fortress, rather like the great hall. They are even deeper underground, I think. Evidently mine are not quite so deep, though they are suitably hidden amid narrow passageways.  
The room itself is of the quality I have grown to expect from Utumno: remarkable craftsmanship, appearing to have been carved from the mountain itself (with the incessant cold that I have also grown to expect). However, this room contains a fireplace, a rather unexpected addition. The bed is quite fine, far larger than the one in Aulë’s halls, and covered in dark furs as is Lord Melkor’s. There is an extravagantly carved wardrobe in the corner—dark wood, I believe. I suddenly think of the things I have in my other chamber…perhaps, as I noted, all of the clothes are useless, but there are important notes on forging and things I have made. Lord Melkor once complimented the jewelry I wore…I had not recalled until now, strangely, but last night he had evidently placed it on a table near his own: I saw it when I glanced over to locate my clothes.  
There is a mirror above the fireplace. It shocks me at first, as it is proof that I do, in fact, look like a mess. The jewels are thrown haphazardly around my neck, and I did not believe it was possible for my hair to be so disordered. Is there—yes, there is a basin deep enough to immerse my head. Perhaps it will force my eyes into an expression approximating “fully awake.” 

 

I bathe, and sleep, and the next morning the spirit brings me a tunic, evidently on Lord Melkor’s orders. _“The lord wishes you to dress.”_  
“Am I to meet him?”  
_“He did not say.”_ If it were possible for a shadowed entity to appear deeply, profoundly tired, this one would. I close the door, and dress accordingly. I note with satisfaction that it can be worn with the same gold chain as my robe; the thread chosen to embroider a design along the hem is gold as well, and it contrasts beautifully with the inky black of the tunic’s material—how and why did he acquire this? 

In the evening it becomes apparent that I am to meet him, though this does not mean what I thought it did. There is another knock at the door, and when I say “Enter,” a tall figure appears in the mirror above me.  
“Mairon,” Lord Melkor says, making me aware once again that he does not need to speak in what I began to think of as the voice of sorcery—large and echoing, sounding as though he speaks in Music even in unremarkable conversation. Yet now, as before, he sounds…almost ordinary. “Ah, you received it.” He places a hand on my shoulder. Why must he stand so close? Is he not aware that I hear Music in my head when he does that? Oh…I must only be able to recognize it as such due to my training, and in that case…this must be what the other Maiar speak of, and sing of, and moan incessantly about. In that case I know exactly why he stands so close: he wants to bring out my natural desire to serve him by eliminating all reason I possess. In an effort to fight this while also conducting a relatively controlled experiment (determining under which circumstances the Music increases), I turn around abruptly and reach up to kiss him.  
When I pull away I am suddenly aware of what I have done. “I apologize, my lord, I did not mean—that was far beyond—“ I try to move past him to the door, but am blocked by his arm. “My lord, I know it is only you who can initiate the ritual, but—“ There is an amused expression on his face.  
“Mairon,” he says, and in his tone is some amount of laughter, “I had no idea you wished to introduce the customs of my brother…however if it pleases you I would not be opposed—“  
“Your brother?”  
There is a flash of anger in his eyes and I realize I had interrupted him. Before I have a chance to apologize for this transgression, he continues: “The…orgies they have in Valinor.”  
The…what? “Orgies?”  
Lord Melkor must sense some of my confusion. “Oh…I thought I could tell in your costume and your behavior…I must have been quite mistaken, then, as I was evidently your first!” He laughs at that, noticeably harder than strictly necessary.  
Feeling some need to defend myself, I start in: “I do not see the purpose of ‘love,’ or whatever it is called, except if one wishes to procreate and I certainly do not!”  
“Mairon, I never called this ‘love.’ You made it clear that you are not attracted to me, or rather my anatomy, and more importantly I am not attracted to you.” Wasn’t he? Then what were we doing?  
“It is true that I am not ordinarily attracted to your anatomy, my lord. But…you are the lord of all Arda! I do not believe this is anatomical at all…I rather think it is some kind of extension of the Music. I am meant to serve you, my lord, and…” I let my voice grow softer. “This may be an aspect of my service, if you wish.”  
“I am certainly flattered, Mairon, and you have proven yourself, I suppose.” He kisses me in an overly aggressive manner and I am rapidly running out of breath. When we break apart I unlace my tunic. He looks amused again. “I am assuming I will need to instruct you again.” Again—oh, the party. He shoves me onto the bed—mine this time, a thought I enjoy. This ritual may be more ceremonial than I had expected, but evidently it can occur in other rooms. Lord Melkor resumes his aggressive kissing. I do not think I mind. He runs his hands over my chest, reaching the chain. “Remove this,” he growls. So I do.  
His mouth is forceful, as are his hands. Mine are spread at my sides, grasping at the furs occasionally. “What am I to do with my hands?” He takes my arms and puts them around him, and we are fully in some type of embrace. It must not be required for us to be so close; this must be some sort of embellishment…

 

I must have slept after we were finished, for I awake and he is gone. He did not discuss my performance…what does this mean? I wish I were not so inclined to act on this feeling—this “love,” or whatever it may be. I suspect it may impede the ritual when it must take place. I try to avoid these thoughts but they threaten to consume everything, and I am rather grateful for the slip of parchment that comes under my door.  
The handwriting, exactly like the spiky script that had written my party invitation—Lord Melkor’s? Surely he has someone to do such menial tasks for him—spells out something with very precise margins: some sort of poem. As I raise it to eye level, I get a flash of phrases: _Who is the maker of mightiest work?—May all in hatred be begun—Death to light, to law, to love_ …Love? _Law_? Then, as quickly as this occurred, I glance at it again to be sure I have read it correctly and find that there are no words at all, merely arrangements of letters designed to look like words at the quickest glance. No…the first line I can read: _Whom do you serve, Light or Mirk?_ A choice. Have I not already made one?  
The jumbled letters bear no resemblance to what they at first said. Still, this must be an oath. The oath. Why has he waited so long? I try to recall what the rest of it said and my mind is blank. No, not entirely—there was a section, a curse…my mind is blank once more. The magic does not hurt; in fact it hardly feels like magic at all. At that thought I know whose spell it is: my lord’s magic would have felt like a headache, or a sharp pain, or the wind being knocked out of me, or someone entering my mind and poking things. This is no design of his. How could the Valar still have this hold on me, and for that matter how could Eru? Surely Eru has abandoned Arda…I have not heard a thing from him…  
Perhaps it is not enough to think these thoughts; perhaps I must speak them. I face the mirror and say, in a very even tone, “Eru is not here any longer.” This is…not exactly what I intended to say. I breathe as though preparing for Song, and say again: “Eru has no power here. Here there are no laws but Melkor’s, and he is lord of the earth.” Somewhere inside me, something ignites. I like that power, whatever it is, and continue, “Not Manwë, not Ulmo, not…Aulë.” To fully get the point across, I finish with a tiny portion of a Song, _“Not Eru,”_ and the mirror shatters.  
The parchment is intelligible, and I read what I am meant to say. It is not difficult to remember, as I can invent statements of my own with the same sentiment if needed. Drawing the burning further inside myself, I speak it aloud. The burning intensifies, yet I can now see the words in my mind as though I thought of them myself. Fragments of thoughts flash into my mind, offering changes to the words as I know them. They are good, and I keep those too in the event that I am allowed to offer my own sentiments as well as my lord’s.  
Another piece of parchment is slid under the door: _Dress._ So I do, grateful for the tunic and my own good sense to wear the metal chain. The robe from the party fits over it neatly. Then the door swings open and two spirits beckon to me. I follow. 

Lord Melkor sits in his throne upon the dais of the great hall as I enter. I move to bow before him, and he holds up his hand, stopping me. **“Not yet.”**  
I intend to ask…the voice comes out of my mouth as a whisper. “My lord, may I…embellish the vows?”  
He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing me. **“If you say anything that contradicts the text, I will tear you apart.”**  
“Yes, my lord.”  
**“Very well. Kneel.”** So I do. A voice that is less his than many others speaking in unison asks, **“Who is the maker of mightiest work?”** and **“Who is the king of earthly kings?”** and **“Who is the master of the wide earth?”** to which I reply,  
“Lord Melkor,” each time, and this pleases him, and he directs me to speak my piece. It comes from my mouth like an enchantment, yet one that came from my own mind. It fills the room until I speak with many voices, just as he does. **“Death to light, to love, to all laws but Melkor’s own—cursed be the stars above and the valleys green—may the great darkness drown Manwë and all his servants…”** There is a tearing inside me, and my whole being is fire. My eyes burn. My head is an inferno. I must be splitting apart. Never have I felt such power, even when my lord was teaching me the Music…More words pour out of my mouth, and they please him, yet I cannot recall what they are. I offer my fealty, and fall forward. 

My eyes burn still, as does my entire being. Lord Melkor rises. **“Go to Valinor. Get your things and return quickly. I do not want them falling into the wrong hands.”** I leave, and fall to earth on one of those infernal green valleys, and head to Aulë’s forge. A cloak covers my hair, and hides my eyes. I do not recall where or how I received it.  
My chamber is just how I left it, and I look with revulsion on how quaint it is. There are quick footsteps outside, and: “Mairon?” O everlasting darkness _not this_. Everything is in a box and I step beside Curumo as quickly as I can without drawing suspicion. And outside, facing me on the path, is Aulë.  
“Mairon! It is you, is it not? You have certainly been away for some time—“ I try to move past but I can tell that he can see my eyes, at the very least, and his brows become furrowed. There is a crowd gathering, and I burn even more than I did before my lord, and suddenly this is the most amusing thing I have ever beheld, and I let my cloak fall… Reflected in a window are my eyes, ringed with flame. I have become utterly colorless apart from where I burn. Aulë looks horrified. “What happened to you,” he says in a way that suggests he has some idea, and intends to be threatening.  
I laugh, baring my teeth. **“You know very well! I am not yours, nor was I ever.”** A large contingent of smiths is staring at me, equally horrified but without the combined anger and disappointment. Beneath me, the grass burns. I walk backward until I am in front of a tree, and I place my hand on it, watching it ignite. I laugh, watching their faces once more. No one thinks to ask me anything, and I am grateful. **“I am not your Mairon.”** Satisfied, I practice something I have not practiced often, changing my form into something with wings—it aches and tears but I do not think of the pain. I hope they think of me, and I hope they are afraid.

I return to the great hall with the box and return to my preferred form as I hit the ground. My lord rises and walks to me, pulling me up so I look into his eyes. I think that he puts a sable cloak around my shoulders, and directs me to look to the front, where a smaller seat had been placed beside his throne. “Yours,” he says to me. I am guided to the steps, where he directs me to stand beside him as he says, **“I present to you Mairon, my lieutenant."** Oh, this is glorious. I sit in my throne beside him and laugh uproariously.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stammering pieces of your old name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473643) by [mischianza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischianza/pseuds/mischianza)




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